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Chapter 10

May 14 2006

There's the initial tangle of legs, hands, knees in the way of course, and Carl isn't really making things any easier by squirming like a caged animal under him, when Pete is quite obviously trying to speed things up some.

And worse still, he seems to be having other ideas, despite Pete's best efforts to rid him of those godforsaken Calvin Kleins…seems to be practically fucking indifferent to the hand that had been interestedly rubbing at the front of them a second ago…that is, before he leapt up to go away, away from Pete (awkward, alone and hard now, on the bed) and go look - for what, Pete isn't really sure…

He's just contemplating hiding behind the door and then scaring the shit out of Carl when he gets back, just as he returns, happily brandishing something that, on closer inspection appears to be a bottle of something or other.

"That Jim Beam...?" Pete enquires hopefully.
"Nah, Jamesons init."
"Oh." Pete says ungratefully, making a grab for it, Carl managing to snatch it away just in time.
"Does it look like Jim Beam, Pete?" Carl's half-sneering, knocking a generous amount of the dirty, golden liquor back.
"No." Pete shrugs, embarrassed - not too keen on admitting that he doesn't recognise every single beverage instantly yet…

Unlike the bloody alcoholic over there.

Screwing the cap back on the bottle, Carl tosses it onto the bed, next to Pete, who reluctantly takes a swig while the bloody alcoholic sniffs around by the bed for something…

Pete doesn't want to drink, really. He wants to have sex, and really soon, because he's been hard for much too long, all the time that they were kissing on the bed, all the while that Carl was fucking his mouth, and all the time since…and if Carl's already forgotten that they were actually just about to fuck, then his brain's been more mangled by drugs than Pete thought.

He's wanted to do this all day long, and if Carl's gone to all the trouble of helping him stay here, (for how much longer, he isn't too sure specifically) lying to Pete's mum, persuading Amy-Jo to keep her mouth shut about it, and being prepared to have him hang around, then he might as well make it worth his while he thinks, and take full advantage of Pete being (nearly) naked on his bed.

Carl seems to have found whatever he was searching for, and Pete watches him cross the room to the stereo, sliding a tape in, and sees with bitter disappointment that he isn't even hard any more, too busy concentrating on fiddling with buttons and such to notice Pete's dismay, making him want to lob the bottle he's holding at Carl's stupid head, yelling "I was just going to fuck you, you selfish bastard, but OH WELL!!"

Which, he doesn't of course.

Because he (well silently, anyway) resolved earlier on that he wouldn't. Wouldn't say or do things quite so impulsively around Carl, now that he's seen how it can upset him…

Nonetheless, he pissed-offedly resigns himself to tweaking his Marlboros out of his jean pocket, grabbing a lighter off the floor next to him, idly lighting a fag with a melodramatic sigh, and accepting that he's probably not going to be getting cock any time soon, as Carl looks over, and says "What, Pete?"

"Nothing." He says, sulkiness tinting an otherwise level tone, exhaling a moody too-big ball of smoke.

Baffled, Carl returns his attention to the stereo.

And yeah, Pete likes music too, fair play - but he likes sex too. And so does Carl, and he doesn't see why they have to have the soundtrack of the velvet fucking underground every time - not like Carl makes a habit of it was just that first time, really…

"Carl…not being funny alright, but I was planning on fucking you…
and this is a bit of an um…downer, to be honest…"

Carl looks sharply up, but then it's gone, those first beginnings of an expression of irritation, and he smiles lightly, says "Slow down, have a bit to drink - s'why I brought it in here, after all…"

Carl's teasing him (he must be, twisted little moron) and it's practically unbearable, Carl sitting not five torturous feet away, making him ache so fucking much with need, with nothing but those (horrendous, dirty, totally fucking unnecessary) boxers to stop Pete seeing him, spark him into going over and just taking him right there, on the sodding floor, if he has to.

And Pete has no intention of letting Carl get his sordid little way here…if he wants to play the tease then he can play it alone, because Pete is not patient and even if he was he reasons, he still wouldn't stand for this rubbish.

Knocking back a bit more bottle, he climbs out of the bed, goes over to Carl on the floor, (still bloody trying to find the right place on that tape) and crouches down, right into him so that Carl can feel him from behind, just touching the rise of his arse, and leans in until his lips brush the tip of Carl's ear, saying quietly:

"You don't need to drink right now, Carl…"

And he hears a tiny shuddery whimper escape the mouth that he can't see, at those words (and as he dips a hand into the back of Carl's underwear).

"You just need to go lie down, so I can make you come. Again…"

And Pete supposes it's a bit of a test, really. Seeing if Carl's going to be difficult, play him around, after all they've gone through today - their pact, and things that (Pete really bloody hopes) should affect their…future, yeah.

And as far as tests go, Pete thinks it's really not that hard.
They're going to get along and play nice now, even if they can't make it last for ever.
They'll soon find out if they genuinely can't stand living together, when Pete comes here next year, (in all likelihood, against his dad's best wishes but he doesn't really give two sods any more, anyway) and if he's honest, Pete loves finding these things out for himself.
Even if afterwards, he'd rather he hadn't.

He sees Carl hesitate for a second, strange knotting in his shoulders where he's tensed up, Pete languidly tracing the fascinating little dips at Carl's back, either side of his spine, that disappear under the waist of black boxers, two fingers for each one.

And suddenly Carl's rising, making Pete scramble backward eagerly, so Carl can get up, as he goes back to the bed, rolls onto his back, and Pete follows suit, till he's on all fours, shuffling a bit until he's astride Carl, and leans down for a kiss.

And Pete realizes that Carl must've flicked 'play' as he got up, because song is filling his head, and to Pete's surprise, it isn't Velvet Underground…
and he grins then, when he recognizes it, grins adoringly down at Carl beneath him, trying his damnedest not to come out with something embarrassing and hard to take back, like "I love you and I can't believe that you even bother to do anything like this for me, when I just act like an ungrateful fuck when you do do it."

So instead, he just brings his mouth down to Carl's, catches soft lips between his teeth, murmuring against them "I didn't think you ever listened when I wrote to you and rabbited on about how much I love Patti Smith and people…"

Carl pulls Pete's face away, suddenly a little serious, and says "I did listen. Just 'cause I never replied…"
"Why didn't you?"
"I did…well, I read them and realized that things you said in them pulled at me, like I….God, I don't even fucking know. It just all sounded so familiar, as though I could've written it…it just astounded me that someone who wrote to me sort of by chance, because I knew their sister, was gonna be so similar…was gonna see things in a way I thought only I could…until then, that is. I couldn't believe you were actually writing about things I find so close to my heart most days…it just…floored me, I think, the first one you sent.

And I just found myself writing what I thought was total fucking rubbish in replies, because I didn't see how you wouldn't already know everything that I told you in them…it was that surreal, and I felt like you must somehow already know me that well, even if we'd never met. I just ended up casting every one into the fire."

Pete, who's expression had been animated with amazement, little echoes of pride in the crinkles forming dazedly under his eyes, sat suddenly apathetic astride him, looking a little dejectedly down at Carl, sighing "Oh right."

"Mine, I meant. My replies…"

And Pete looks back at him suddenly, hating his own stupid presumptuousness. Carl's propped up a little, on his elbows, with soft concerned hands gliding lightly over the scarred, delicate skin of Pete's knees - pressed either side of Carl's hips again.

And it strikes him, not for the first time - how weary Carl is, just totally beyond his years.

It's the opposite of what Pete, himself has always been - and he isn't sure if it's something that he'd want yet…could it rub off on him eventually, dragging season-slow with their time together, he wonders?
It doesn't occur to him that the only things that can truly rub off on him are the things that he wants to, the things he chooses, either because they're preferable or because they're 'him'.

And so he wonders, unaware of this detail about himself, realizes that Carl's obviously just a bit clever and just doesn't let on about it mostly - this worn, hardened side to him…

Until that is, someone (Pete) is so drawn in, becomes so infatuated, that they don't care about it any more. And it's not like Carl doesn't lord it up in a way - always keeps Pete in his place, as the naïve, young thing from Coventry…

"So you did write back…only you decided to…"

"Burn them, yeah."

"Oh…I wouldn't a cared. You know."

Carl's looking amusedly up at him, smile curling his bottom lip in a parody of wryness at this strange, silly creature that he lets have him all the time, possibly because he's something untainted, magnetic, more free than Carl is, in so many ways.

"You could've written anything and I'd still of read it, yeah. Kept it…" Pete murmurs, sliding gentle fingertips into the cradle of Carl's hand, until he can close his fingers around it possessively, as if Carl's hand was something to be kept too, like those letters…he wants to keep Carl, and keep him like this always - doesn't want him running off, trying to end his life, killing himself with drink and drugs, or some ill-timed, inebriated slip into dirty canal water…

And then, inexplicably - Carl leans up and places a breathy kiss against Pete's lips, stubble scratching a little against his cheek where he hasn't shaved today (because of Pete), eyelashes fluttering in tiny little shivers (because of Pete), dirt from the canal-side (because of Pete) rubbing off on his hands as he presses them heavy and dream-like to Carl's hips.

Carl is first to break away, chuckling his answer a little late, "You wouldn't have read this shite though, I can tell you..."

"How do you know?" Pete grins, pulls him back so that he can taste (ok, bite) that fluttering, fucking irresistible skin at the side of Carl's neck, as Carl groans his reply, "Well, let's just say it involved a fuck-load of scribble. And wank attempts at poetry."

"Not as wank as your lyrics, Carl surely…" Pete teases, nipping at an ear-lobe, and then giggling too near and too loud, right in Carl's ear.

"Fuck you," comes the distracted reply, as Pete resumes nibbling.

"Again?" he's grinning suggestively down at Carl, who only swats at him tiredly, too heavy and lazy with Pete's caresses to bother with a proper smack just now.

And to Pete's satisfaction Carl is hard again, when he glances downward. Maybe that was just the right innuendo to make just then - who knows, but he can't help being turned on by it, seeing that Carl really does get off from being touched - even in the slightest, softest ways, (though this probably isn't what's defined as 'slight' these days) - and that he must want Pete as much as he wants Carl (which is all the fucking time)…

Probably not such a healthy thing, if he's honest (-- he isn't).

"Carl…?" he repeats the sentiment, shifting on Carl so his body rubs against Carl's erection, and then wishing he had the self-control to smack himself around the face, when Carl arches under him, shivers trembling all up and over him, moaning soft, sensual - the way he nearly always does from the briefest softest contact.

It's practically making Pete salivate, this…Carl stretched out so tight under him from head to toe, so that Pete thinks if he so desired, he could count every rib, swears he can see the heavy-stuttering flutter of his heart under the skin made taut there…

Breathlessly, he gently leans down to trace his mouth along heated skin, and just hopes that this is leading to what he's been dying for all day, and always, ever since the first time…

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